May Ling Su

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  • Batgirl

    Batgirl

    When I was five I was Batgirl. Not just on Halloween. I was Batgirl everyday, everywhere. Eventually my Mom convinced me that I didn’t need to wear the costume to be Batgirl. After all, superheroes are still superheroes even when they are in their civilian clothes. I adored Barbara Gordon just as much as I did Batgirl. She is a Librarian, a real hero in my book.

    I went into first grade at a Catholic school run by nuns. (I wore a tan uniform on regular days and an all-white one they called our gala uniform for when there was Mass on a special day. But this is irrelevant. Anyway…)  One afternoon after school I was snooping around the nuns’ cloister  and found a giant fruit bat, the famous flying fox, hanging upside down from the rafters. I don’t know how big it actually was, but six-year-old me remembers it as humungous. I may as well have seen God. I trembled in awe and fear, backed away with my wide eyes glued, hoping the creature does not fix its powerful gaze upon me.

    For the rest of my life the Bat owns me. I invoke her powers when I need resonance and echolocation, courage in darkness, rest in uncomfortable circumstances.

    Like that time in New York City when I met the Man I would marry. It was the middle of a blizzard. He invited me to his place on Staten Island, a Victorian Mansion haunted with giant ceramic demons hanging from trees, feathered Indians made of stone, and life size Nativity figures looking out from inside the street-level fence. Indoors there were grand pianos, antique furniture piled on top of each other, a billiards table in the basement, and taxidermy birds, fox and a giant elk head mounted on the other side of the wall his third floor bedroom loft was against. By the time I got in his bed, we had already been out three times and I was wondering why he wouldn’t make a move on me. So I kissed him. That was all it took. It unleashed in him the giant wild horned beast just a wall away from our heads. We fell in love.

    There was one afternoon when he and I walked from the Mansion to the Staten Island Ferry bound for Manhattan. He stopped me, and bent to pick up a black plastic Batman ring on the snow-white ground. Then he took my left hand and slipped the toy on my ring finger. Realizing what he’d just done, we both became nervous. A strong gust of cold river wind hit us. I pondered it all while the winding winter wind whipped at us. At that time I hadn’t yet told him I was Batgirl. What was going on? Who gave him a clue? And most importantly, did it mean I could hang upside down with him for the rest of my life? The Lenape natives called the large island south of Manhattan Aquehonga Manacknong, “Sandy Shores and Haunted Forests.” Those island ghosts knew.

    May Ling Su is Batgirl
    Watch my Batgirl movie at MAYCAM

    Decades later, my Elk-Man and I live together in a big old 19th century farmhouse with a barn attic full of antique furniture, art, and toys of our own. I’m still Batgirl and this is where I hang.

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  • When I think of home…

    When I think of home…

    I think of tropical monsoons and coconut trees swaying in the furious wind. I think of guavas and mangoes and spiders as big as a man’s palm.

    I think of the hot California valley, swimming pools, and strawberry fields as far as I can see.

    I think of New York city streets, libraries and museums and theatres and cafes.

    I think of a Victorian mansion with a view of the Manhattan skyline. I think of art, antiques, and taxidermy. I think of bohemians and decadence.

    I think of a California cottage by the bay, overrun by ivy. I think of dot-com days and swinging nights. I think of friends on the futon.

    I think of a home by the lagoon. I think of ducks and geese and my baby. I think of young buff men fucking my thirsty mom body.

    I think of a little red cabin by a Maine lake. I think of being underwater all summer.

    I think of a modern cottage on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, surfers on the beach below, sand constantly between my toes.

    I think of an old farmhouse and barn in Maine. I think of ghosts and absolution.

    You are my home and I am yours.

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  • My Secret Life

    My Secret Life

    Today is my parents’ wedding anniversary. Almost nine months later I was born, which informs me that I was either a honeymoon baby or the shotgun that made the wedding happen. I never asked. I know that whether it was through forbidden lust or wedding night excitement, I was born of passion between two young and beautiful people. I like leaving it at that.

    Throughout my life I found that at my best I exude sexual power, passion, desire. I am a natural flirt. I make love to everyone I encounter in one way or another. At my worst I am ashamed to draw attention to myself. My very existence is a disgrace, a hushed up secret people whisper about while they shake their heads and click their tongues knowingly.

    I was born with jaundice, so I remained at the hospital for two weeks after my birth. My parents visited me daily, but I learned that I could cry my head off and still not be held if it wasn’t on schedule. By the time I came home from the hospital my mother said that I was such a “good” baby. I never fussed. At less than a month old, I already knew how to take care of myself, not be demanding, just take what I get and don’t get upset.

    I spent my childhood being the “good girl.” I truly was. I took everything I learned about Jesus and life to heart. I read voraciously. I was thoughtful, diligent, quiet. But I had a lot of questions that no one around me could answer and pretty soon I learned to silence those questions because they bothered people.

    Upon reflection I realize that I’ve always had a well-developed secret life. It’s where I put all the unanswered questions, the provocative ones that most people don’t dare utter. It’s where I stored my ugly feelings, jealousy, anger, ambition. It’s where I learned about sex and desire. It’s where it was okay to be “bad.”

    On the outside I continued going to church, getting good marks at Catholic school, singing at choir. I got so good at being “good,” so good at seeming good to make other people feel good. In college I got involved in theatre and it freed me. For the first time I could be “bad” and be applauded for it. I didn’t know it then but in time I noticed that I almost always got cast in sexy roles: the femme fatale mermaid, the hyper-sexual old maid, the tragic drug addicted porn star, the powerful whore… the list goes on. I inhabited these characters like my life depended on it, because for a brief moment my secret life could breathe, speak, move.

    When Jay and I first started dating he saw me in one of my shows, really saw me, and helped release that secret me into the real world. It was so exciting! The badder I got, the more he liked me.

    Then the internet saved many an introvert’s life, mine included. Jay and I dove head first into the web, full send. My secret life thrived online, right here on this blog that I’ve been writing since 2002. I found people I connect with: critical thinkers, sexuality explorers, creatives and geeks of all kinds. We all brought our secret lives together to create this world, one blog, one post, one tweet at a time.

    May Ling Su at the Venetian in Las Vegas 2002

    This photo is from January 2002 in Las Vegas when I attended the AVN convention. I’m looking out to the Venetian hotel courtyard, naked as a newborn baby, arms outstretched taking up space. Not a care for anyone else in the world. Not a fuck given to anyone else’s opinion. Open to any and all experience. Young, bold, and stupid.

    So much has happened since. Life has had its way with me, blown me up, knocked me down. It takes a little more bravery to get back up and keep going after my confidence is shaken but here I am again, standing naked looking out my window in January 2021, a little wiser for the wear, taking up space. I am still here. I am worthy.

    May Ling Su at the window

    I know where my power comes from. I trust it. I step into it. I belong here. This is my rightful place. I am worthy of this space.

    Love, Lust, & Liberty,

    May Ling Su signature
  • Booty Love

    Booty Love

    First Hump Day of 2021. How is your work week so far? I am starting the year with a daily yoga practice. So far so good, 6 out of 6 days in.

    I’ve done yoga off and on for years but haven’t connected to it until now. During the latter part of the past year I rediscovered it, paying special attention to the first chakra.

    May Ling Su does yoga in cheeky panties and bare feet

    All summer I ran around barefoot in the backyard imagining roots growing out of my feet and digging deep into the ground, absorbing the nutrients of the soil, nourishing me from toes to the crown of my head. I repeated a mantra, “I belong here.”

    As an immigrant, someone who has moved around a bit, I can be rootless, sometimes escapist. At best my escapism fuels creativity. At worst I may be avoidant and non-confrontational of problems or difficulties in life. Whenever Jay and I fought, and we did fiercely, my instincts were to fight or flight.

    My backyard barefoot meditations helped ground me. The earth said to me, “Stop fleeing. You are home.”

    May Ling Su in cheeky panties and bare feet

    I started doing yoga when it got too cold. My appreciation, adoration, and reverence for the first chakra deepened. I am learning to ground myself in the strength of my butt hole before reaching to the heavens.

    Give your ass some love and everything else will align, stacked neatly on top of it.

    Love, Lust, & Liberty,

    May Ling Su signature
  • Meet the Woman of My Dreams

    Meet the Woman of My Dreams

    Happy New Year! As of this moment I am bundled up in this wool blanket Jay gave me for Christmas. It zips open in the middle to allow me to wear it as a serape. It is my favorite thing to wear.

    Last year I posted my Slut Stats, which spanned an entire decade from 2010 to 2019. This past year 2020 I only had a total of 5 periods, with an average of 63 days in a cycle, the longest being 140 days, and the shortest 20 days. The last time I had my period was in November.

    I had a total of 6 partners, all male, all people I’d previously been with. By March when we were made aware of the pandemic, Jay and I became monogamous. I had sex 333 out of 366 days.

    As difficult as 2020 was, it was also transformational for me on a personal level. I realized that I had been too preoccupied attempting to be the woman of other people’s dreams, that I had not asked myself the most important question: Am I the woman of my dreams?

    As 2020 fades into a memory, I release myself from the pressure to be your or anyone else’s fantasy woman. I release myself from my fear that I’m too old, irrelevant, not keeping up with the amazing young sexy talent slaying the social media scene.

    I am looking forward to becoming the woman of my dreams. I am stepping up to shine as an even more authentic version of my self, even though at this point, I’m not completely sure who that is. I am going into 2021 with curiosity, confidence in my pleasure, and clear communication. I trust that the Me that I am becoming is loved and desirable.

    May Ling Su naked under her blanket

    As we go deeper into this winter, I invite you to stay in. Give me tonight. Regalame Esta Noche 🎵🎶

    Pillow talk: How did 2020 transform you? What do you look forward to becoming in 2021?

    Love, Lust, & Liberty,

    May Ling Su signature

  • Hello, Gina.

    Hello, Gina.

    Thank you for appearing to me in my dream. You look beautiful! The whole dream was lit in the romance I have come to see in places and people I miss. I am in an old Spanish style house in an unknown Philippine province. I am putting clothes away in a cabinet. The capiz shell windows glow in the sun. It is high noon but cool indoors. I hear a tricycle pull up outside, bags being loaded. I go out and there you are, about to get on that tricycle.

    “I’m going back to Manila,” you say. “Come with me.”

    I shake my head. “Not right now.”

    I really want to, but I decide not to. I still have things to do. I don’t think too hard about it.

    So I watch you go off on that tricycle kicking up sepia dust on that bright sunny day. I’m filled with joy having caught a glimpse of your otherworldly beauty. I feel the loss of having chosen to stay behind.

    I woke up crying and realizing the impact of another dream I had, about a month before you died. I didn’t give much importance to it at the time. I blogged about it, but didn’t name you, or let you know it was you. I was embarrassed. It revealed more than I was willing to share.

    In the dream I was walking along a beach with you. There are two guys with us. I don’t recognize any of them in my lexicon of real life guys, but in this dream world we are hanging out with them. You throw off your clothes and jump in the water. The guys follow quickly. I fumble with the buttons on my white shirt. It is taking me so long to undress. I woke before I am able to join you skinny dipping.

    I didn’t understand it then. I didn’t see that dream as a premonition. I felt remorse for being too late, regret for moments I let pass because of some stupid reason or another, a crippling awkwardness about things. A little over a month after my dream, you slipped into a coma and died.

    The last social media post on your timeline was a picture of the last beach you were on. Your kids brought your ashes to that same beach. You had gone skinny dipping for good.

    One of these days I will be able to join you in the ocean or ride away on a tricycle. Maybe I’ll catch you the next time you come around. As the sky goes dark tonight, I am reminded that pain is not the enemy. It merely points the way to the wound. Before we tend to it, we have to understand what the injury is. We have to allow ourselves to experience it. Then we can take steps toward healing and transformation.

    Everything is a gift.

    Love,

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    May Ling Su nude outdoors on hammock

    Excerpt from Coming and Going by Regina Abuyuan:

    I suppose a lot of fallen beings now miss The Garden’s heavenly Fruits. And I’ll tell you why: 

    In that place exists Complete Bliss. A Fruit—any Fruit—plucked from its enchanted trees, and savored garden-fresh is guaranteed to bring you to the Ultimate of your Being—no matter what level of Be-ing you might be at the moment. This is an experience many seek, for both enlightenment and pleasure, and it is because of this service that many bitter beings—those denied access and who sulk salivating hungrily at the Gates—call it The Cosmic Brothel.

    Yes, dear friends. In The Garden one could find the Supreme Fuck, and reach the mind-shaking, soul-stirring Orgasm that could fire up your neurons swifter than Hermes on speed and expand your consciousness faster and greater than Zephyrus could ever impress with his smoke-rings. 

    In The Garden, Orgasms are made into Legends. That rumor about Osiris and Isis making out in The Nile and a crocodile biting off Osiris’ Venerable Dick? It occurred Right Here, when he won Isis (then a plump, ripe, rare Fruit-Woman specimen, in bloom only for every dozen millennia) in a game of dice, and chose to hump his prize in the Stream of Mother’s Milk where a gameful lizard nipped at his member. Strengthened by the milk, Isis was blessed with the awareness to search for the still-throbbing penis while Osiris howled in unholy pain. You all know that the search proved futile, but since then every being was aware of who wore the proverbial pants in the family.

    Isis was one of the few fruits to achieve Deity-status, which she probably earned by impressing upon everyone that the heat that possessed her loins equaled only the determination to find her mate’s penis. There’s nothing like a single-minded, driven woman, and she got her due reward! They never found the real organ, but being the cosmic beings they were, they discovered alternative ways to get it on, and always, in the warm creaminess of the Stream, which, in their more affectionate moments, they called their “mother”. It is because of this, perhaps, that some have thought Isis and Osiris sister and brother.

  • What’s your poison?

    What’s your poison?

    I put on the antlers Jay bought me a few days ago. It made me happy to run around naked in the woods behind our house where many a herd of deer have passed through. I keep a pile of fruit and vegetable scraps at the edge of the wood year round, but winter is when the wild life need it most.

    I hiked to the top of this cliff. Jay took my photos from the bottom of the rocky hill.

    I went down on all fours like a beast, waving my invisible tail side to side. When I descended he covered me with his arms and told me I was beautiful.

    We made love tenderly at first, then dirty, like animals. He filled me and filled me and filled me until I oozed delirious and he was spent.

    I washed up, got dressed, and picked up our kid from school. I slid to the passenger seat to let her drive us home.

    “How was your day?” I asked. She paused before she told me she had a weird day of not much happening in her classes, then at study hall her friend messaged to say that his dad died. He wasn’t ill. He just died. My daughter seemed deeply affected by that. It hit her hard to think that any day, without warning or indication, she could lose either one of her parents, too.

    I took a proactive role and said that we should go get food for her friend’s family. We got a whole rotisserie chicken, a vegetable side dish, and yellow chrysanthemums. I told my daughter to text her friend to ask if we could come over with some food. He said yes.

    By the time we got out of the grocery store, it was pouring really hard. My daughter drove in the rain to her friend’s house. It was a long way to Hope, which is the next town over from ours. She turned into a dirt road and up a hill. At the top of the hill is her friend’s house. His family had moved here from Illinois just a year ago. The car parked outside still has Illinois plates. Who knows what situation they are in now without the father?

    My daughter wanted me to come along with her. She is so shy, my kid. We put on our masks and walked up to the house.

    Her friend answered the door. He looked tired. His eyes were red and puffy.

    “I’m so sorry,” I said, as I handed him the paper bag full of food.

    He said, “None of us feel like cooking.”

    “We figured,” I said. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t know what was right anymore. We ran back to the car to get out of the rain.

    When we got home, my daughter baked me a birthday cake while Jay and I made dinner. We talked about life and love. We told stories and laughed. Underneath it all was the thought that death comes for us all, sooner or later. The question isn’t when, it’s how.

    Find what you love and let it kill you.

    Attributed to Charles Bukowski

    We all get to pick our poison. Some people choose alcohol, drugs, sugar. Others have an obsession with thinness and beauty. Then there are those whose passion becomes a poison, revolutionaries, workaholics, lovers of all kinds.

    Jay always said he wanted a beautiful woman to kill him. She could be me, killing him slowly, one headache, one heartache, at a time. If my life was a painting, I’ve already messed up the canvas, made many mistakes and accumulated regrets for inaction. It’s time to pull together all the loose ends, the painful lessons, the dark memories of my life and transform it into a beautiful work of art.

    That night, as I blew out the candles on my birthday cake, I wished for more time to love him the way he wants to be loved as a unique and extraordinary human. I’ve only just begun to learn how.

    Love, Lust, & Liberty,

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    P.S. See the full photo set at MAYCAM.